


Anybody Missed Me?

by el3anorrigby



Series: Illya and Napoleon Drabbles [8]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: All Ends Well In The End, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 05:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7702756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon has been lying on that damn hospital bed for too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anybody Missed Me?

**Author's Note:**

> For those who still reads Illya/Napoleon stories, even after almost a year, then you've found another little fic from me. :) Unfortunately, the boys and the movie don't belong to me. Else, I'd sanctioned for a sequel right about now.

Napoleon has been lying on that damn hospital bed for too long, his deathly pale form against the white sheets of the bed so still, Illya fears he’s losing him for good. And as he sits there by Napoleon’s side, a million thoughts start to swirl in Illya’s head. 

It had been almost four weeks since they’d found him barely alive, beaten and bloodied, and even if his wounds have started to heal, he is still unconscious, still so far away from where Illya really wants him to be. He reaches out, skims his fingers on the healing burn marks marring Napoleon’s cheek, traces the visible scars on his arms, and Illya knows there are countless more hidden from his view, and suddenly he wishes he could conjure all those people who had done this to Napoleon back to life, just so he could kill them all over again. 

He remembers it all too well, that night when he had learned Napoleon had been taken away by the CIA. He had gone berserk. And what had made it worst was when he’d found it had been a trade to ensure his own freedom from the KGB, a decision Waverly had sanctioned. He had threatened the Englishman at gunpoint, demanding to know why he had done it without his knowledge. And when Waverly had made it known it had always been the deal between both the CIA and KGB with UNCLE, that one of them would be returned to their former organisation at any given point in time, Napoleon had suggested that it would be him to go, had convinced Waverly that returning Illya to the KGB would be condemning the Russian to death, much worse than him returning to the CIA. Waverly’s admission had left Illya’s world spinning out of its axis.

The next couple of days after that had been a whirlwind for Illya, grasping the fact Napoleon was indeed gone, but then he’d been given a lifeline, albeit a pretty bad one. UNCLE had been alerted that their American counterpart had never called for Napoleon’s return. Further investigations then had revealed Sanders, Napoleon’s former handler who had personally met Waverly to secure Napoleon’s return, had actually been dismissed two weeks prior to their meeting due to suspicious irregularities in his work, of suspected corruptions, meddling with mission evidence and reports, mishandling of his agents that included blackmail. And that was when they had realised the truth. It had all been a setup by Sanders and his cohorts just to get to Napoleon; to teach him a lesson in loyalty, payback time for what he had done in Rome. After that, it had been a race against time to find Napoleon and when they eventually did, Illya thought they had been a little too late.

Illya groans, shakes his head as he tries to forget the awful sight that had greeted him when he had found Napoleon. It is something he wishes he could erase but it is somehow burned into his memory, scarring him forever, just like the physical marks on Napoleon’s skin. It will not go away easily. The damage had been done.

Determinedly, Illya pulls his chair nearer to Napoleon’s bed, grabs his hand so he could entwine their fingers, thumbing the too pale skin slowly before gripping it tight, hoping, _praying_ Napoleon’s able to feel him, sense his presence somehow.

“Please, Cowboy,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “I need you to wake up. If you do, I promise I’ll do anything you want. _Whatever_ you want. But please, just please, wake up. For me?”

Illya’s pleadings have become more desperate with each passing day and he is unsure if he is able to escape this nightmare he’s suffering from.

Then, suddenly, he feels it. A twitch of Napoleon’s fingers. The Russian’s eyes widen immediately, his heart in his mouth.

“Cowboy?”

He grips Napoleon’s hand again, whispers _‘please’_ , and Napoleon reacts. Illya feels him gripping his hand in return. It both excites and frustrates him at the same time, Illya wants to vent out, because he just does not know what to do at the moment. 

And a couple of agonising heartbeats later, Napoleon stirs, and this time, it is followed by a soft moan with his eyes moving underneath his still closed eyelids. Illya feels like his prayers have been answered. The surge of pure indescribable relief, of hope, of knowing he’ll be able to look into Napoleon’s bright blue eyes again, almost floors him. 

“Napoleon?” he says his name a little bit louder, and then, slowly, Napoleon opens his eyes and blinks. He squints at first, then gazes at Illya like he’s looking at him for the first time, and Illya’s lips curl into a smile at the most beautiful sight he has ever seen in his life.

“Hey,” he greets his partner with glistened eyes. But just as soon as his hopes had been returned, his heart plummets when he hears Napoleon’s first few spoken words.

“Who—who are you?”

At once Illya recalls reading Napoleon’s long list of injuries from the doctor’s medical report he had gotten after his surgery; gunshot wounds on his left thigh and right clavicle, multiple lacerations and welts on his arms, legs and torso, poked burnt marks on his face, a couple of broken ribs and a severe concussion caused by a blunt object which had hit the back of his skull hard. And that’s it. That’s when it hits Illya like a tonne of bricks. 

His gut twists painfully at the damning realisation that Napoleon might not be able to remember him. His face fell, horrified he is losing him all over again. But then, inexplicably, the edge of Napoleon’s lips twitches into a small lopsided smile, making Illya realise what was really happening.

“Fuck, Solo!” he sputters, “god, how, how dare you do that to me?”

Illya’s visibly trembling, and he feels like strangling Napoleon because that was unforgivable, that was downright cruel. It almost gave him a fucking heart attack, but when Napoleon licks his too dry lips and almost pouts with teasing eyes, Illya concedes defeat. He shakes his head at the American.

“Do you know—do you have any idea what you’ve been through? _What I’ve been through?_ ” Illya asks, his emotions getting the better of him. He leans in, cards his fingers through Napoleon’s hair, brings his other hand that is gripping Napoleon’s to his lips so he could kiss it lightly. “Do you?” 

“I know, from the look on your face,” Napoleon croaks and Illya hears his own heart break at Napoleon’s answer.

_You’re willing to sacrifice everything for me, even your own freedom, your own life, and what did they do to you? They don’t deserve you, Cowboy. None of them deserved you. And I don’t know what I’ve done to have you in my life but I swear, I’ll never let them take you away from me. Never again._

“Don’t you dare try what you’d done for me, again, Cowboy. You hear me?”

Napoleon doesn’t say anything to that, merely mouths the words Illya has missed hearing from him, never tires hearing it from him each and every time it’s said. Careful not to jostle him too much, Illya lays his head down, tucks it underneath the American’s chin with one arm falling across his chest, curling around his shoulder to hold him tight.

“Anybody missed me while I was gone?”

Illya doesn’t answer, can’t believe Napoleon could even ask him that. He lets a choked sob escape his throat instead before proceeding to tighten his grip on Napoleon’s body. He cannot afford to lose him again, especially not after this. He does not think he will be able to survive it. As he is about to lean up to kiss Napoleon, he catches sight of two figures standing by the door, eyeing them intently from outside the room. 

One is an East German woman with happy tears streaming down her cheeks, someone who matters dearly to Illya, a friend who had helped him through one of the roughest experiences in his life. Gaby. Where would he be without her? She had been there to help him hold himself together, kept himself from falling apart when he had thought he had lost Napoleon for good. And the other, a gentleman Brit, his goddamn superior who is to good to them, who now knows just how much Napoleon means to him and would never ever contemplate on ever letting Napoleon go again.

He nods at them before turning his attention on Napoleon, places a chaste kiss on his lips, not caring if Gaby and Waverly are watching. Leaning their foreheads together, he murmurs _“I’ve missed you”_ against Napoleon’s mouth like there was any doubt of that at all. Napoleon only sighs softly, smiles and mutters, “I figure as much.”

And Illya is eternally grateful that he has this thief with a heart of gold in his life. He is Illya’s most precious and prized possession and he’ll be damned if he’d ever lose him again.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this little scene in The X-Files, where Mulder was lying on a hospital bed and Scully there by his side and immediately thought of Illya and Napoleon, so I decided to borrow it and tweaked it a little. I hope you'll like this angsty little fic. (but with a good ending nevertheless)
> 
> Comments and kudos are love. <3


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